


Nocturne

by Medie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Cunnilingus, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:17:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Sherlock has awful tendencies, an unusual request, and John might just be going round the bend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nocturne

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the BBC Sherlock kink meme to the prompt John performs cunnilingus on someone.

Sherlock has an awful tendency. 

Well, strictly speaking, she has _several_ awful tendencies (severed limbs, truly disturbing sketch work, not to mention mixing things which are _not_ tea and yet closely resemble tea without informing her flatmates they are, as a matter of fact, quite _deadly_ and, yes, being just a 'little unconscious and not nearly dead at all, John, do stop yelling like that' is indeed _wrong_ ) as well as some mildly irritating ones and the godawful madness she only trots out when Mycroft is in the vicinity, but that's all fine. Good. Brilliant even as they have nothing to do with the awful tendency in particular.

Namely the part where she tends to wander about the place half-dressed. Which, oddly, he was used to before moving in. Growing up with Harry had seen to that and med school had most certainly finished it. All together, prior to moving in with Sherlock, he'd thought himself quite used to girls dashing to and fro, clutching towels, ranting about losing this and that. Perhaps not entirely inoculated against it, but close enough to share a flat with tall, oddly gorgeous women with awful tendencies and the most spectacular pair of legs he'd ever seen.

Right. He'd thought that.

A few months of living with Sherlock and that perception, his supposed inoculation, had gone right out the window. Somewhere around the time he began dreaming of spending his time between those perfect, perfect legs. It had been a sort of exquisite torture, really, dreaming of all the ways he might make Sherlock come. Just how many ways he could send her over the edge, screaming his name the whole bloody way. 

He rather likes those dreams. Doesn't have them near enough, but enough. Enough that he catches himself watching her legs. Walking, running, sprawled across the sofa, it doesn't matter. He'll be right there with her, watching them eat up the ground or shift back and forth on that hideous fabric, and all he can see is them naked. All he can feel is their silky smoothness beneath his palms as he pushes them apart, opening her up to him.

He already knows what she'd look like. Can already see her wet and ready, teasing him with the promise of her taste, and he squirms with the thought of her. His mind plays out the scenario, just like it has a thousand times, and he sees her in his mind's eye as she comes. Screaming. 

Man could die happy like that. Stripping Sherlock's sense and reason, reducing her to a single raw nerve of pleasure, wrung out and wrecked from the feeling of his tongue against her body. So wrecked that her voice is hoarse from screaming, barely able to form proper words. 

And she'd scream. He's certain of that. Nothing about Sherlock is restrained. When he dreams of putting his mouth to her, tongue sliding against the heat of her, he always imagines her screaming. 

"John."

Sherlock is standing over him when she speaks, fresh from her shower. He cracks one eyelid, casting a glance in the direction of the clock before looking at her. What he sees before his eye slides shut once more is the blue of her favourite robe and the pale whiteness of her skin. _Christ_ she's going to kill him yet.

"Sherlock."

"What?" He doesn't answer. It's late, ungodly late, but this is Sherlock and it takes the beat of a breath for her to catch on. 

She huffs a laugh. "Really John?" The fabric of her robe whispers, with the movement of her legs. Closer. 

He throws an arm over his eyes, willing her from the room. She could at least tie the bloody thing shut. She won't, of course, because she's Sherlock and Sherlock never does such ridiculous things as worry about propriety. "Aren't you _cold_?" 

"Not particularly." 

Grabbing the blankets, scattered about as they are, John pulls them over his head and rolls away from the door. Contrary to Sherlock's assertion, the room is absolutely freezing and the warmth of his bed is slowly pulling him back under. A few more hours of sleep would be grand considering just how late she'd had him up, scrambling about the city, only a few steps ahead of cop and criminal alike. 

"Wonderful," he says around a yawn. "Off to bed then." He draws the blankets tighter and snuggles down once more. 

It is, as a deterrent, precisely as successful as he thought it might be. She clambers up onto the bed, prodding at his shoulder as she leans over to peer in at him. "John?" When she's sure she has his attention or, at least, enough of it to suit her purposes, she continues, "I require your assistance." 

One long finger jabs into his shoulder. "John?"

She's not going away, he knows that. He knows he could lie here all bloody night and she'll stay right where she is. "Fine, right, what?" he sits up, scrubbing at his face, and she's sitting almost atop him. The robe is askew, shadows hinting at the milky white swell of one breast and he closes his eyes. "Sherlock."

She rolls her eyes. "It's just a breast, John. I'm sure you see dozens of them a day in varying states of undress. I fail to see what makes mine so special."

He very nearly says, 'they're yours' but he has some control left. "We've been through this, Sherlock."

"Yes, I suppose we have," she agrees. "However, it's irrelevant at the moment. My request requires nudity." She pauses, tips her head, and then rephrases, "Well, partial-nudity, both on my part I assure you." She grins. "In fact, you can stay right as you are and it will work just fine." 

"Your -- " John thinks that is, possibly, the moment his brain truly wakes up which is slightly horrifying. You see, when his brain does wake up, she's still there and she's _grinning_ at him. "Sherlock, what on earth are you on about?"

Satisfied she has his attention, Sherlock sits back on her heels "Cunnilingus, I need you to perform cunnilingus." She leans in, hair and robe falling forward with the motion. Yes, she's naked and, yes, she's _serious_. "On me." 

_Christ._

"You want me to _what_?" The words start off at a near roar, but Sherlock fixes him with one of those absurd 'mind the neighbours, John' looks of hers. She keeps it special for the moments when she's decided to do something truly outrageous and would rather quash all attempts at protest before he can talk her out of it. Mrs. Hudson's 'delicate constitution' is usually the most effective as, generally, Sherlock's truly outrageous moments either involve his gun or the very small hours of the morning when either one, or both of them, is likely in some varying stage of undress and he does make the odd note toward propriety.

Sherlock would say prudish, but Sherlock regularly torments Donovan as to Anderson's terrible technique and

"Oh god, that's what this is, isn't it?" 

She folds her arms (bad move, that. At least not without tying up the bloody robe first) and tucks her chin. "No, it is not."

"Oh yes, yes it is," he says. He throws the covers back and scuttles out of bed, putting distance between them. He'd put half of London between them if he could, but Sherlock would just hunt him down and, likely, not bother with any further clothing first. As he's not in the mood to explain that to Lestrade, he stays put. "This is about that bit with Donovan this afternoon."

Sherlock shakes her head. "It is an experiment, John, and really, it would do you some good."

He gapes at her. "GOOD?" Again she gives him that quelling look. Right, Mrs. Hudson. This would not be a conversation he's in any hurry to bring her into. Really. She'd probably tell him to bloody well get on with it as she'd a few quid riding on it with Lestrade. (Yes, he is aware of the betting. Sherlock seems to be wilfully unaware, but he wouldn't be surprised in the least if she were behind the whole thing and looking to collect mightily) "Exactly how would my preforming oral sex on you do _me_ some good."

She smirks and flops back on his bed. Now there's an image that won't soon leave him. Sprawled as she is, robe putting up only the most frail of attempts to protect her modesty, all long-limbed, pale-eyed temptress and wasn't she supposed to be the one uninterested in sex? 

He feels oddly cheated on that front.

Front.

His inner delinquent snickers. John resolutely pins his eyes to a point above her head. Far above her head and the previously indicated front.

It is, as fronts go, a rather brilliant one. 

"Yes, good for you. I've made quite an intensive study on sex, John. I can reciprocate quite effectively." Her voice softens, cajoling in her mind quite likely, and he begins his own intensive study of the truly awful wallpaper. Really, it is absolutely horrendous. "As you've been wholly unsuccessful with women since your return to London, it has been quite some time since you've experienced a good and proper orgasm." 

"Oh really? And I suppose you've been making careful observations to that effect?" he asks, regretting the words just as soon as they're out. Of course she has. She's _Sherlock_. She's likely got a file somewhere labelled JW that contains every single deduction she's made about him as well as a detailed analysis of his habits (eating, sleeping, and, apparently, sexual) and that's just for starters.

God only know what Mycroft's keeping in his.

Bloody family. Mental the works of them.

"Yes, we are," Sherlock agrees, "but as it works for us quite better than the rest of you, I'd say it suits us fine enough. Now, really, John, must we?"

"Oh, we must." He finally risk a look at her face, amused as it is, and frowns. "Flatmates don't—" She smirks wider and he scowls all the more. "They don't, Sherlock. This is ridiculous! I'm not going down on you."

"But you'd like to," she says, confident. Damnation. He remembers being somewhat inscrutable once and quite misses it. Having every thought and intention exposed at every moment of the day does get tiring. "That is my point, John. Why are we debating this?" She sits up. "You'll protest as you believe yourself to be a gentleman and, as such, are not supposed to harbour such desires for your flatmate. I will, inevitably, shred each and everyone of your reasons as being a fallacy—"

"They aren't," he insists, stubborn. 

She raises an eyebrow. "No? You believe I should be 'off limits' because we are flatmates, correct?"

"One reason, yes," he nods, despite knowing better. She's not wrong. She will shred every single one of his protests because she's Sherlock and she could debate the entirety of Parliament with both hands tied behind her back and reduce the works of them to tears of frustration inside of ten minutes. Five if she's just seen Mycroft. "We can't—"

"―because it will go bad and make living together entirely untenable?" 

"Essentially, yes."

She raises both eyebrows. "Where my propensity toward random acts of recklessness have not? My past behaviour has done little to ruin our arrangement, John. I fail to see how a falling out over _sex_ will accomplish what severed heads, Moriarty, and my own foolishness has not." She rises onto her knees and looks at him. "This is not about you."

He cringes, knowing what's coming. If she can't see it yet, there's but seconds before she does. He can already see the understanding creeping into her gaze. A deduction confirmed by the softening of her expression. It's a worrisome look to see on Sherlock's face. She's not someone he associates with a great amount of compassion. At least, not the kind which expresses itself in the look currently on her face.

"You believe that _I_ will go?" She blinks, sitting back up. "John?" Her voice is small and her expression surprisingly unguarded. Enough that he can see that he's well and truly shocked her. "But—" She tips her head, looking at him with undisguised confusion. "Why?"

"Because." Because he's afraid, terrified really, and absolutely convinced that she will. That this will end, she'll be gone, and he'll be sitting in that room again with a ready hand on his cane, staring at the bloody wall. Just like before, only worse, for he'll have known this. Known _her_ and he thinks that might kill him.

It's not rational, not logical, and he can't put that fear into words, but it's there. She's _brilliant._ Maddening, yes. Infuriating, absolutely, but she's glorious. Beautiful. Amazing. She can be anything to anybody if she'd only give a second's care, but she doesn't. She's here. She's with him and she's herself and he's so bloody terrified she'll realize it all and be gone. He can't face that. Won't. Not even for the price of this.

Sherlock scrambles from the bed, closing the distance between them in two quick strides, and she's looking at him with absolute wonder. 

"Idiot," she murmurs with all the affection he's never thought to hear. "As if there's anyone else I'd have in your place." 

She's stared at him before. Does it daily, in truth. She'll stop whatever it is she's doing, look at him for a long moment, eyes impossibly intent and searching. She's not once said anything, asked anything, she'll just blink and go back to her work. 

He's never dared ask (with Sherlock one never asks a question one doesn't want answered) for an explanation and she's never offered one. She just does it, it's over, and they carry on.

He's used to that, but not this. Not her staring at him with pale, serious eyes, that speak of things he can't bear to consider. "I thought—" he falls silent and shuts his eyes. He's not this. He isn't. He's never worried like this before, never thought himself not enough (liar), and he can't think that and look at her too. Not when she's staring at him like he's the answer to every question she's ever asked.

John shuts his eyes. He doesn't know what to do next. With Sherlock he never does. He knows that he's tired, that he's confused, and that she's _looking at him_. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do next and certainly doesn't know what to do with the offer she's presenting him.

God, he's wanted her for weeks, months, maybe from the very beginning—"Oh yes, absolutely," Sherlock agrees, all but pressed against him—and now she's here and he's _said things_. Things he's never meant to say and quite possibly he's dreaming.

"John, please look at me." Her fingers brush his sides, pluck at the shirt he's worn to bed, and she's so impossibly warm. She looks so cold, so distant, he's surprised every time he touches her and finds her warm to the touch. So very warm. 

He catches one hand in his. His thumb rubs an absent circle in her palm and finds a scar there. He rubs it and she makes a noise. Less than a moan, but more than indrawn breath. It catches in the back of her throat and he repeats the motion, wanting to hear it again.

She obliges him, then pulls him closer. He doesn't protest, though he knows he should. 

"I'm not asleep, am I?" he asks, opening his eyes.

"You are not," she says. "Though there is that possibility." She smiles, faint. "Men are remarkably talented in that area." She tugs her hand free of his, reluctantly by her expression, and goes for his shirt again. This time she's the one who stops it, shirt bunched in her hands, as she looks at him with furrowed brows. "Truly? You truly thought that I would—" she makes a soft noise that he can't quite sort out. " _John_..."

He sighs. "I know what you're going to tell me."

Sherlock shakes her head. "I very much doubt that." 

"Oh?" 

A quick flick and his shirt's over his head, tossed aside before he can even try catching it. It sails through the air, landing in a bunch beneath his window, and he sighs. Given half the chance, she'll turn this room into a disaster too.

"Yes, very much," she says. Her eyes fall on his shoulder and the scars there. He doesn't flinch away from her scrutiny. It was only a matter of time before she saw it, though he'd expected the revelation to be in the course of treatment and not a botched attempt at a seduction. Her hand rises, fingertips brushing over the skin with a sort of reverence.

He's not expecting her to lean in and trace the same path with her lips, but she does. She takes her time at it too, as if she might learn everything she needs to know from the taste of his skin. 

It's Sherlock, John reminds himself, she very well might. 

"You didn't say," he manages, feeling a little faint as she follows the scar back to his neck. There she nuzzles and nips until his legs are shaking and isn't this supposed to be about _her_?

"What?" she hums, walking them backward. "And don't say playing dumb is ridiculous."

"Well, it is," he says. "Also beneath you."

She lets herself tip back onto the bed. The robe's a lost cause now, spread across the bed beneath her. She is, indeed, naked beneath it. Gloriously, perfectly naked and he's staring. Staring at her without a thought in his head beyond incoherent lust.

"That's cheating," he manages, but it's some time before he actually manages to speak those words. 

Her look of innocence is well practised, but not enough. He doesn't buy it for a second. Knows her too well to believe it.

"Not if you know why I'm doing it," she says, fingers tapping out time on her thigh. He lets himself watch those fingers, amazed he can do so all things considered, and they shift from tapping to a slow, lazy circle. One that widens with every rotation, sliding ever closer to dark curls.

"Oh, even then," he says, and realizes he's licked his lips as he speaks.

She huffs a laugh. "Fine, if I tell you, then will you promise to demonstrate cunnilingus?"

"You mystify me," he says, laughing despite himself. "You're trading sex for an honest answer?"

"If it will work," Sherlock nods firmly, "yes." And means it. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "All right, then, deal."

"You surprise me," she says, and she's honest. "Do you know how rare that is? No one surprises me, really."

"Not even Moriarty?" he asks, remembering the enthralled look on her face at St. Bart's. That moment in the lab when she'd put it together and the name Carl Powers had crossed her lips. Moriarty had _fascinated_ her. 

"No, especially not," she says, waving her hand. "There are so few differences between he and I. Clever to be sure, fascinating in his way, but no, not a surprise. You surprise me."

"I surprise you?" he echoes. "Really?"

"Really. There's always one thing, John. Always." A faint grin of wonder tips up the edges of her mouth. "With everyone else. There's always that one thing I miss or misread. With you? There are a thousand, a million, and I never quite know. Quite maddening, really, but that would be typically you, wouldn't it?"

He doesn't quite laugh. Not quite. Instead, he crawls onto the bed with her. He's not sure he has a choice in the matter. Not with the way her eyes seem to be drawing him in. "We're not done, you know," he says. It's as much token protest as anything, but he feels the need to say it.

"No, John," she says, spreading her legs for him. For _him.  
_  
"You know it doesn't matter, right?" 

She scowls. "Of course it doesn't, John. As if the opinions of those two simpletons could ever mean anything." As maddening as it is that she does this, there are moments like this when John loves it all the same. Half-spoken conversations conducted in fragmented sentences and sideways glances. There's something wonderfully insular about it. In all the world, he's the only one who gets to do this, who's allowed to do this. He's been let behind the wall and the power of that's a heady thing, enough to make his head swim.

No, no, that's Sherlock's mouth on his doing that. She has made a proper study of it. There's no hesitation in it, not in the way she catches his face between her hands, drawing him down atop her with the same movement. 

"Experiment, my arse," he mutters into the kiss. 

"Well," she laughs, voice rough, "it very nearly worked." She presses a quick, lighter kiss to his mouth, then his jaw, heading for his ear. "I'd all sorts of scenarios worked out."

That she's been plotting doesn't surprise him in the least. That she's been plotting _this_ absolutely astonishes.

"And what were the others?"

She gives a grin, pushing him downward. "Be a very good boy about this, John, and you might find out."

Since meeting Sherlock Holmes, John's had a proper education in a great many things. The expected murders, mayhem, and also the many varying pained expressions Scotland Yard inspectors are capable of producing when their consulting detectives are feeling particularly ill-tempered that day. Learned so many things, really, and not the least of which is that, somewhere along the line, they've been the making of one another. 

He'd felt it happening, of course. Known that she was going to change everything practically from the start. (Of course, Mycroft and that serial killing cabbie might've been a bit of a clue) He'd felt him drawing him into her world, remaking him in the process, but he hadn't seen this and he can now. See that he's changed her as much as she has him.

It might be the heights of hubris, but he'd like to think so. He certainly can't picture the Sherlock of that first day like she is now. Sprawled across his bed, legs open and ready for him, eyes watching with equal parts arousal and impatience.

"Really, John," she says, just a hint of annoyance colouring her voice, "it's just a vagina. Quite a few of them exactly like it all over London." 

He can't help laughing, ducking his head to try and hide it (as if he might actually hide anything from her) but she snorts and nudges him none-too-gently with her foot. "Honestly, Sherlock, I think I might be permitted a moment to let the moment settle in. This is not where I thought to be spending my evening."

"You are in bed," she says, petulant. "You are precisely where you thought to be spending your evening."

He rolls his eyes. "Allow me to rephrase, then, I did not expect to be spending my evening awake. I also did not expect to be awake and in bed performing cunnilingus on the crankiest woman in London." With a grin, John pinches her thigh and finds her resulting yelp and quelling look to be quite satisfying. "Now, Sherlock, be a very good girl and let me enjoy the moment." He thinks about telling her just how truly gorgeous he finds her to be, every single part of her this one included, but knows the difference. He's heard the thousand and one withering comments she's made about her own appearance and he knows just how truly impossible it can be to argue to the contrary. Far better strategy, in his opinion, to take his time showing her. 

"Very well," she says. 

He rests his forehead against her thigh and laughs. She shivers in response. It's a whole body thing, that shiver, and sends a frisson of heat rolling through him. Responsive, then. Very, very responsive. 

Curious, he breathes out. Just a soft exhalation, feathering its way across her skin, but it does the trick. She shifts, restless, with a soft sigh of pleasure. He licks his lips and nods to himself. Good. Excellent. Very, very much so.

He turns his attention to her proper and the sight of dark curls covering pink flesh, both shining with the beginnings of lubrication, and it's absolutely brilliant. God. He squirms against the bed, rutting himself against the blankets, eager for friction of his own at the sight. Her name might slip past his lips and his might come from her in answer, but he pays it not enough time to truly know. Not when he's stroking a finger down her outer lips, feeling that heat beneath his skin, and working up the nerve to put lips to her body.

She groans, hips moving as he parts her with his hands, baring her clitoris to his attention. "Right," he says, close enough to her that every word pushes air against her, "how's this an experiment again?"

"Oh, shut up and get on with it," she complains, thumping him with the heel of one foot.

He laughs and does precisely as commanded. Not the first time he's done this, of course, but still. It's Sherlock. That requires a certain level of care, dedication to detail, and sheer inventiveness to be applied. Anything less than reducing her to the loose-limbed wreck of his fantasies will, in his eyes, be an utter failure.

Not that the first time is anything truly difficult. It seems that he's barely put his lips to her, tongue sliding the length of her clit, when she's already crying out and shaking. Her legs spasm, going stiff, and she arches up against him, heedless of anything but the pleasure washing over her. He puts hands to her hips, holding her still with a grin of glee at having his fantasies confirmed.

Mrs. Hudson'll have their heads for Sherlock screaming like that.

"Might," he says, when she settles, "want to grab a pillow."

Sherlock laughs, weak and rough, looking down at him. "Think we'll wake the neighbours?"

"God, I hope so," he says, grinning wildly. "Be nice to wake them with something other than gunfire."

She wrinkles her nose. "Oh really, John, that was only the once." Her eyes light with mischief. "I've a far better cure for boredom now."

He rubs thumb against her clit, pleased by the way her head drops back and she keens, making a slow, lazy move of it. "Ah, so I'm to be your rentboy then?"

"Mm, yes, I think you should," she agrees. Her hips move with his hand, equally lazy, but he can feel the energy building up underneath. She's not near to being done with him. Not near at all. "It would be a quite equitable trade, I should think, do―oh god, John."

John laughs and she cries out again. He lets the conversation drop in favor of tonguing her. She babbles something, hands grabbing at his hair, the sheets, at anything and any place that might provide traction until she's coming apart again. Her cry, throaty and anything but quiet, fills the room and wraps around him like a promise. Every night. Spending every night like this, with her shuddering through orgasms beneath him—and _god_ , the idea's enough to set him to humping the bed again.

"So, right," he says, cheerful, "Would, by chance, any of your scenarios involve sitting on my face?"


End file.
